


Life in Motion

by StarlingGirl



Category: The Avengers (2012), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It ought to scare Clint, that Logan knew so easily what it was he needed when he didn’t even know himself - instead it comforts him, and he feels secure like he never has before as Logan’s fingers drag across his skin and his tongue coaxes his lips apart.</p><p>Clint has always needed an anchor, and Logan has always been strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a giveaway prize for eye-of-rage on tumblr, for the prompt "Some angst and then some ;) ;) ;)", which I took to heart.
> 
> I've never written this pairing before, nor Logan as a character. Hope it's okay!

 

It has been a long day – the longest he can remember in a while.

He gets home and makes breakfast. It doesn’t matter that it is almost eleven at night; when one or the other of them is injured, or had to make one too many kills, or is so bone-achingly tired that even their teeth seem to sting, they make breakfast.

(The first time, it had been three in the afternoon and he’d begged for pancakes. Natasha had given him a look and told him _‘it’s the middle of the afternoon’_ and he’d replied ‘ _we just saved three hundred people, I think we can bend the rules’._ She’d relented – possibly only because he looked miserable, in the sling – and so had begun a tradition that now spanned years.)

He sets out two pans, uncaring of the too-loud _clang_ as he sets them on the stove jerkily. In the fridge, he finds bacon – a day past its sell-by, but he’s taken worse risks – and he snags an eggbox from a high shelf in a cupboard. For a sickening moment he thinks the box is empty, but there are two eggs left, deceptively light in their cardboard nest.

He slings the bacon into the pan carelessly, turns the heat up a little too high; the smoky smell starts to weave through the air of the kitchen, to cling to his clothes and his hair as he scrambles eggs.

He’s never been a great cook, and he’s surprised when the bacon and the eggs are about ready at the same time. He shovels them onto a plate with no care for presentation, collects Eggo pancakes from the toaster that burn the tips of his fingers, and drowns the plate in maple syrup.

He’s silent while he eats.

 

Afterwards, the taste of the syrup is sweet and cloying on his tongue. He fetches a glass, fills it with cold water, drains it. And again. Stops at two so he doesn’t make himself sick, even though the taste still lingers, seems suddenly unpleasant and heavy.

Then he looks at the pans heaped in the sink, at the mess that should have been enough for two, and sinks to the floor, back against the counter.

He cries.

 

When the door opens later – God knows how much later, minutes or hours or _days_ – he doesn’t look up. His head is in his hands, his skin tight and hot and itchy from tears. He can tell it’s Logan from the lingering scent of cigars, so he’s unsurprised by the strong hands that hook under his arms and drag him to standing.

“If you say ‘it’ll be fine, kid’, I’ll punch you,” Clint warns, voice lower and rougher than usual, marred by the sobs which have long since ceased.

“It’ll be fine, kid,” Logan says, predictably, a trace of sardonic humour behind his words.

Clint punches him.

Logan doesn’t try and block it, head snapping to the side as Clint’s knuckles impact against his jaw; he merely brings his head back around and works his jaw a little as Clint fights the urge to nurse his throbbing knuckles.

“Feel better?” Logan asks, drily.

“No,” comes the answer, in the same low voice. There’s a steady sigh, as though Logan had expected that to work and is disappointed by its failure, before he tugs at Clint’s shirt. Clint doesn’t bother to resist, merely allows himself to be pulled into the man’s embrace, and wonders what he smells like.

Bacon and eggs and syrup and despair, probably.

“Romanoff would be pissed off if she knew you were assuming that she can’t get herself out of this.”

It’s blunt and it’s harsh and worst of all it’s _true._ She’d certainly do worse than roll her eyes if she could see him right now, would wave away his worries and point out that being captured by a terrorist cell – while not exactly a habit – is something that has happened before. As though the threat of torture or death is old news.

 

Clint buries his face in Logan’s shirt, and tries to steady his breathing.

(It should be embarrassing, he thinks, for the other man to see him like this. After all, this is nothing more serious than sex. )

Draws in a shuddering breath and the scent of cigars.

(At least, they’ve never talked about it being anything more than sex.)

Forces the same air out, a hot rush in the enclosed space he’s made for himself against Logan’s chest.

(They’ve talked about a lot of things – their pasts and their presents and their favourite brand of beer and tactics and bad jokes and worse anecdotes – but _this_ they’ve managed to avoid with practiced finesse.)

Another breath in, already steadier, eyes tight shut and fingers curling into Logan’s sides.

(And sure, sometimes there’s been some talking, or hanging out without anyone touching anyone else’s dick, or Logan turning up when Clint is almost blind with anger and about to do something incredibly stupid, laying a hand on his shoulder and muttering a “stop, kid,” that shouldn’t be as calming as it is. But it doesn’t mean that this is a _thing_ , right?)

 

Logan waits a few moments longer, and then tips Clint’s face up. The vaguely wary expression would be almost comical if Clint could find the energy to laugh; Logan is a man of many talents, but dealing with crying people isn’t one of them. To be fair, Clint is the same – unsure of what to say or do and mostly wishing he could be somewhere else, leave the words to someone who can wield them better.

"C'mon, kid," Logan murmured, tilting Clint's chin up so he could look him the eye. "Stop sulkin'. She'll be fine." Clint manages a weak smile, and starts trying to believe it as thoroughly as Logan seems to. Logically, he knows that Natasha has both the capability and the back-up to make it out of this alive, but there's always, always that lingering fear that this mission will be the one where they cut it too close, where they take one too many risks, where their luck finally runs out. Logan seems to notice that he's cranking his brain into overdrive again, and presses a not-so-gentle kiss to his lips, apparently in an attempt to distract him. It works.

"Is this your method of comfort for everyone?" Clint asks with vague amusement between kisses. "See someone crying, proposition them?" Logan snorts a half-laugh at that, fingers curling around Clint's hips.

"Like you're complaining. Besides, I haven't propositioned you yet."

"Get on with it, then," Clint says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and causing the pull of skin still tight from the heat of tears.

(And there's absolutely not a twinge of disappointment that Logan hadn't contradicted the idea that he'd do this for anyone. That would imply there were feelings involved here, and Clint Barton didn't do feelings - aside from lust, hunger, and occasional boredom.)

 

He whines as Logan breaks away from him, fingers grabbing for swiftly retreating heat, and then Logan is pulling the door open and casting an impatient look in Clint's direction, gesturing him through the door with a jerk of the head.

"What?" he says, at Clint's look. "Y'thought I was going to fuck you in the kitchen? Even I ain't that unsanitary." It's enough to galvanise Clint into action and he moves towards the door, fingers snagging the other man's belt on the way past to drag him down the hallway towards his bedroom. Logan lets himself be dragged.

They're barely a step over the threshold before the mutant tires of waiting; he reaches out to catch Clint's waist and pulls him closer, a hot open-mouthed kiss pressing where neck becomes shoulder followed shortly by teeth - and a smirk at the whimpering groan it pulls from the back of Clint's throat.

It's always like this. Impatient and heated and urgent and needy, as though they might be running out of time, or passion. It's good, it's exactly what Clint needs - the rush of adrenaline and the beating of his heart and the heady breathlessness that helps him remember that he's alive, that this is his choice, that he is not floating in the forced calm of a sea of azure blue, even panic muted by the magic of a trickster. More than once he's called Logan up, after a nightmare - "I ain't your booty call, Barton," he grumbles, but he comes anyway - and saved himself from madness by concentrating on hot skin under his hand and the delicious stretch of Logan inside of him and the hazel eyes that lock onto his and reflect his own and never show a flash of too-bright-blue.

 

Logan's fingers are already pushing up his shirt, and he's quick to aid them - grasping the hem and whipping the faded, beaten material over his head as quickly as he can and shuddering as rough fingers trace up sensitive ribs, linger over the scar of an old knife wound, splay themselves possessively over his stomach. Pushing himself around, he returns the favour, eager fingers stumbling over the too-small buttons of Logan's shirt and catching impatiently at the white wife-beater he wears underneath, already searching for the heat of bare skin against his own.

Soon enough, he has what he wants, and he presses himself close enough to Logan that he ought to be able to feel the man's heartbeat against his own, hand pulling at the back of the older man's neck to bring their lips together again, letting Logan lick the taste of late-night breakfast from behind his teeth and replace the sour and lingering taste of panic with the intoxicating taste of himself. His belt is open almost before he realises it, Logan not even bothering with gentle as he tugs Clint's pants down; Clint lets out a breathy curse as he tries to toes his boots off, and laughs as he stumbles.

With an answering grin, Logan lifts Clint and dumps him unceremoniously on the bed, sheets still wrinkled and haphazard from the morning (and Clint will never get tired of that, of getting manhandled so casually, as though he weighs nothing) before pulling off Clint's boots as the archer props himself on his elbows and watches, lifts his hips so that his pants can follow.

Logan _growls_ , and honestly Clint hadn’t been planning on this when he’d slipped on his pants without underwear this morning, it’s just that he’d been in kind of a hurry, what with Coulson in his ear telling him to _just get here, stat, the jet is leaving in six minutes whether you’re on it or not, Barton,_ but with the look that Logan fixes on him he’s considering making it a regular thing.

And then Logan’s shucking off the remainder of his own clothes and all at once there’s the solid heat of a naked body above him, and Clint doesn’t hesitate to run his hands over the swell and dip and curve of muscle, to tease Logan’s tongue back into his mouth, to press his hips up and let his breath catch at the teasing friction that sends a shiver of pleasure straight down his spine.

Logan is much more in his element here, knows exactly where the drag of fingers will cause a breathless groan from Clint’s lips, when a nip of teeth will have stuttering curses on his tongue, how to make Clint buck and writhe and forget everything except the sensations of his body and the sound of the two of them, of their breath and the rasp of skin on skin.

Clint’s waving a hand at the bedside table before Logan’s even half-mumbled a question into his mouth, and there’s the slightest pause as Logan eyes the lube that’s already sat there.

“Gotta do _something_ while I’m alone and you’re gone,” Clint says, shameless as ever and impatiently digging his fingers into Logan’s arms, practically rutting against the man in his desperation to be _touched_ , damn it. Logan raises an eyebrow and stares down at the archer beneath him.

“Well, that’s something I’m gonna be hearing more about later,” he says, before he relents and snags the bottle, and the sound of the cap being pushed off is enough to make Clint’s dick jump, to have a long drawn out breath stuttering into his lungs.

 

And Logan doesn’t mess around and Clint _likes_ that, has been with far too many men who ask him over and over if he’s okay, if this is fine,if he’s still okay, until it feels more like his yearly psych eval than anything vaguely pleasurable. But right here and now there’s just a kiss on the inside of his thigh and the pressure of a finger cold with the slick moisture of lube. Clint presses the flats of his feet against the mattress and lifts his hips, too proud to beg with words but already pleading with his body. Logan chuckles, braces Clint against the bed with a powerful arm across his hips and kisses Clint’s thigh again, lets hot breath play across his skin tantalisingly close to his dick but not quite close enough, and Clint whimpers at the abortive contact.

“Please,” he bites out after a brief internal struggle wherehe decides that his dignity isn’t worth his suffering. “Fuck, Logan, just – I ain’t in the mood to wait.”

And Logan comes back with “patience is a virtue,” possibly the most hypocritical thing that has ever fallen from his lips, but has some mercy and presses a second finger in. There’s that familiar burn of too-much-too-soon but Clint needs that right now, needs a reminder that he is alive and that he is still here, and although he bites his lip at the intrusion, he still tries to fight against the weight of Logan’s arm and drive his hips down onto the man’s fingers.

(He misses the way that Logan’s eyes are fixed securely on his face, tracking the tense line of his jaw and the way his teeth worry the skin of his lips and the way the little line forms in the centre of his forehead as his brows knit together in a combination of discomfort and building pleasure. Logan knows what he needs, but he will not let him hurt himself. He will keep Clint safe.)

When Clint’s fingers scrabble at the bedsheets and he starts cursing Logan out, he gets another finger, a twist of the hand that causes him to buck his hips and tip his head back, exposing the curving column of his throat to Logan.

And when the warmth of slicked fingers leaves him, when he feels empty and desperate and itching for a release, for _something_ , he stares with lidded eyes as Logan rolls on the condom – eyes flicking up to hold Clint’s gaze – and makes a confused noise when Logan lays a trail of kisses from his stomach to his jaw, nudges his legs to encourage him to draw his knees up to his chest.

 

This isn’t how it usually goes.

Usually it’s Clint on hands and knees and Logan’s hand in his hair (because this isn’t anything more than sex, right?) and Clint feels breathless and lost as Logan gently bites his lip before lathing his tongue over the reddened skin, loses himself in the sharp intake of breath as Logan presses into him.

It’s different, it’s too different, and Clint can feel his breath catch as panic presses in on his chest; his fingers scrabble at Logan’s arms and there are half-formed words fighting on his tongue. Logan stills above him, ducks his head and whispers soothing words against Clint’s pulse, which jack-rabbits under his skin, and gradually he remembers that this is _Logan_ , this is nothing they haven’t done a dozen times before.

And then Logan pulls his hips back and pushes them forward again smoothly, and any vestiges of panic or confusion fall away because Clint knows this feeling. This is _intimately_ familiar, this is everything he needs and nothing he expected, because there’s murmurings in his ear and Logan’s pace is slow and unhurried and his fingers tease Clint’s aching arousal and there are none of their usual games.

(It ought to scare Clint, that Logan knew so easily what it was Clint needed when he didn’t even know himself; instead it comforts him and he feels secure like he never has before as Logan’s fingers drag across his skin and his tongue coaxes his lips apart.)

Logan picks up the steady rhythm of his hips as Clint’s whines become more frequent, as he writhes beneath the mutant’s ministrations, but even then it is not the frenetic, urgent pace that Clint has become used to – and when he comes it’s like a slow burn of pleasure pulled from deep within his abdomen, rather than the blinding flash of relief it usually is.

 

It’s different, but it ends the same way, with Logan collapsing down on the bed next to them and contended silence spreading between them, broken only by the rough rasp of breath in time with heaving chests.

“Don’t go,” Clint says, and his voice is small and pleading, because he knows how this goes. But different has been good, different has worked, and maybe they can change this too. Logan’s eyes flicker up to meet Clint’s, and rough fingers reach out to brush sweat-slicked hair from his forehead.

“I ain’t going anywhere,” he says, and Clint feels something uncurl just behind his sternum, and he hadn’t realised he’d been having trouble breathing until the trouble is gone. “Come on,” Logan says, fingers wrapping around Clint’s arm, “let’s get cleaned up.”

It’s oddly gentle, far more tender than Clint has ever heard the man.

It’s different.

 

Sometimes, different is good.

 

(When Natasha comes home, barely a scratch on her but complaining bitterly about the bruise blossoming across one cheekbone, Logan will say “I told you so” like the asshole he is, and Clint will hit him again, lighter this time, but he’ll press himself into the man’s side nevertheless.

And he’ll earn himself a visit from Natasha, who’ll fix him with a cool look and tell him “you know why I’m here”, and will be grudgingly surprised when Logan replies with “the same reason I am, Romanoff, to look after Barton”.

But Natasha will still hand out some inventive threats as security against Clint’s heart being broken. Some things never change, after all.)

 


End file.
